


The heart of Möbius

by caracaner



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dark Harold Finch, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e13 Return 0, Fix-It, Harold Finch Whump, Hurt/Comfort, John was not himself for a while, M/M, Science Fiction, This fic is so well written plz read it, so much hurt though, translated work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25337254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caracaner/pseuds/caracaner
Summary: John was blown to pieces on that rooftop. Does it mean his story with Harold ended? He could come back but be careful with what you wish for.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese, Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [莫比乌斯之心](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/650548) by 秋白. 



> The original work is extraordinary and written in Chinese. It’s already so much longer than this translation. So feel free to read if you can understand it. http://www.mtslash.me/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=279928&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D34&mobile=2

Did you hear that? It came from afar, howling. Time to end.  
"Are you still...?"  
"I am here. It's the last moment, John."

  
He forced out a smile, trembling. The howling was closing by, and the only outcome left was the explosion. All the sounds disappeared, along with the rest of the world. His fading mind was trying to grasp something. He asked:"Harol..."

"Taking by the wound and the rate of blood loss, Harold has 80% chance of surviving."

  
The voice of the machine was suddenly clear, clearer than the pain he felt all over. The world stopped blurring, the sound of the missile deafening.  
Reese could feel the horse bubbling of his transfixed lung. His mind lucid, words of the Machine ran inside. Harold was hurt. When? Where? 80%? No. It wasn't supposed to be the way. He should have been completely safe and sound. Would he be alright? Would anyone bring him to the hospital? Would anyone else keep saving his life?  
Harold...

  
PART 01

  
"Lab report of RTP-052, 6/7, no neural signal from brain scanning, no current transmitted from needle-shaped electrode, no sign of life, experiment failed."  
  
The technician put down the phone, filling out the unsurprising results on the document. The red seal left a scarlet mark on the photo of RTP-052, like blood. Her gaze paused on the dark green eyes for a second, and then put down the file.

The cabinets were stacked by similar files, representing that many times of similar failures. They were already used to it. She took out her red polish, applying layers and layers, getting ready for tonight's date. 6/7, one more time and she was done for today. The seven-day period of RTP-052 was over. They were going to need a new body for this. This file was joining those in the cabinet.

The formaldehyde smell of polish ran in the air. She picked up the phone when she was laying her fingers on the table for them to dry. It's from the lab.  
Oh, it's quicker this time. She rolled her eyes, ready to call it a day.

"It's the lab. Report it now. Abnormal data!"  
There were frantic noises of the machines and people running around. The voice of the other side was too thrilled to be matched with its usual indifference.

"Wait, what? The built-in turbine is successfully running, how about the power pump? Working. It's working, so the oxygen motor is supporting the breathing. Inform the HQ, we need more blood. Yes, yes, we made it."

  
She hung up the phone, losing focus for a second, and then reopened the file. The man on the page looked back at her with his grayish-green eyes, oh so tenderly.  
  
She made a few more calls, took care of the file and brought it to HQ. She was not upset for missing the date, not at all. Today was meant to be remembered through history:

-The first artificial smart robot was born today.  
  
The man sat there still for a long time.

Claire had already stood behind the glass for half an hour. He had not blinked for even once. She looked around and saw the tech guys walking by him as if he were some kind of device. Indeed he was. Nevertheless it's a little difficult for her to accept the fact. He was nothing but a device, which was the result of Samaritan's intelligence. But she remembered all his gaze, voice and expressions. He used to be alive.  
  
That's why she was hesitated to walk into the lab. The man used to make their life a living hell. She didn't think he was as innocent as appearing to be. A hand landed on her shoulder. Her new colleague, Joe said nonchalantly, "Relax, don't freak out like a Frankenstein over a robot." Claire walked in with him, brushing his hands away and shooting a glance at him with coldness.

"Even if you don't know him, you already knew the consequence of Samaritan."  
"Come on, the man-in-the-suit died. You can probably find comic books of him in the future. But this guy here..."  
Joe sat down beside the man, hands on his shoulders. The man turned to him with total blankness. Joe touched his hair, "is nothing more than a machine. Last time I saw him, he had only a few broken limbs left. "  
He looked back and offered comfort, "relax, sweetheart, it's about your materials." He didn't think the man would actually be afraid, for he wore that blank face all along. He looked at Joe for a while, and then cast his glance towards Claire. This was Claire's first time observing him since informed of the news by the HQ. One of the impressive pair of green eyes was replaced by a high-density artificial eyeball. Despite their best effort, the eye could only be made into a blue one from chemical liquids. However queer the different colors of eyes, Claire could still find a glimpse of their past glamour. She was alerted and stepped back, asking: "How do you feel?"  
The man was quiet for a moment, as if needing to process information, replied lightly:"Nothing."

"Do you know your name?"

"I am No. 52, and I don't know what you mean..."

Claire thought for a while, lowered her body, and asked in a low and slow tone, "Your old name, do you know? John, John Reese."

A feather fell on the deep lake. The man responded nothing to the name. He shook his head,"I was manufactured half a month ago, there's no 'old'."

A technician wrote down something as hearing the response and nodded to Claire. He took out some electric probe and punctured into his spine, with fast smoothiness. The devices beeped and the guy turned around to record the peek number of his brain signal.

Claire watched all these with a deep frown. She observed the man with such attention. It's only a flash, but she noticed the minor quiver of John's body."Can you feel pain?"

"My nerves were driven by electrodes. So, no."

She and Joe exchanged a glance. Joe shrugged, "his head was mostly intact from the explosion, so we used it. You know we didn't have the time to make a mechanical one, so technically the head is still a human one."

"But he can't feel pain?"The researcher took out the needle, not caring about the blood and blue electrolyte liquid, his voice muffled behind the mask,"Human body is supposed to feel pain. However, he was brain dead for too long, so he could not react to pain."

"So he is STILL a human." She was baffled. Joe waved his hands and stood up. Claire knew the man was responsible for part of the experiment while she was in Finland. He presevered and delivered his body. He explained, "a bombarded broken body could never resurrect, Claire. He doesn't even have a heart, nor complete limbs and skin. Mostly are artificial and all his functions are driven by electricity. A thing with a battery can never be human."

  
Claire looked at him up and down, shaking her head."I still hold the same opinion. I suggest you not to trust him too much."

"Little Johnny is definitely as obedient and handy as your smart phone." Joe laughed with the other researcher.

"Last time I saw him, he was useful, too, in breaking someone’s jaw. "Claire just left.

  
John turned around to look, and returned to Joe, studying his jaw,"why would I break someone’s jaw? Can I break a jaw?"

"Of course sweetheart, only not my jaw. You need instructions, remember?"The blue-green eyes were like two stars on a cold night under the light of the lab bulbs. They looked like frozen for thousands of years.  
He nodded, "Instructions, I follow instructions."


	2. Chapter 2

Joe patted hies shoulders with satisfaction. The lab temperature was low in order to preserve bodies. Joe clutched to his wool coat and yet still felt cold, motioned to the researcher, “Too cold in here. I don’t know how you made it here. I am going to grab a drink. See you tomorrow then.”

The others waved to him in their hilariously thick coats. John held out his hand like them. But the man who kept talking to him just now didn’t notice and left right away.

John just held his hand like that. The people in the lab walked around, taking blood or body fluid from him, but no one ever looked at him.

Cold...the word repeated in his mind. He looked down at the metal table he was sitting on and the white T-shirt he wore. He felt something. Can a machine feel anything?

He froze there, spelling the word “cold”. His metal fingers touch gently over a piece of human skin, which belonged to the dead man. Something popped up in his empty mind, and he blurted out in his low voice:  
“...sugar, green tea.”

The man beside him glanced over: ”you don’t need to eat.”

John saw the thing on his hand, pulled up his shirt, and opened the bandage below his left rib. There below the bloody scar is a plug socket. The man plugged in and left. 

The two words came out of nowhere and were soon neglected by John. He sat there quietly, awaiting for instructions. 

Three months later, the number of failures kept increasing and there were no more successful robots. 

John sat in the cafe, his target reading newspaper not far away. He neglected again the familiarity, sorting out as side effects from the stimulation of electrodes on his human brain. A young waitress brought him coffee and sandwich. He noticed her curious gaze and analyzed his proper response:”Heterochromia, didn’t mean to scare you.”  
The girl shook her head:”No, sir, they are incredibly beautiful. Must be gifted from the God.”  
“Perhaps, thanks.”

She walked away. Joe spoke in his ear, “Nowadays a robot is more popular than me. Johnny, maybe bring your girlfriend to us next time.”

The target finished his meal and left. John followed him quietly. The girl put a napkin with her number into his pocket. He smiled back to that. 

Joe wouldn’t stopped talking and he chose not to respond to irrelevant information, eyes on the target. The man was probably talking to his kid, attention fully drawn to the phone, not noticing he was led to a small alley behind the bar...

When he took out the bullet from the dead body, the kid over the phone was still calling his daddy. John stepped on the phone, and the sound stopped. The voice in his ear just would not stop, complaining he was heartbroken by the coldness of John. John walked out of the back alley, not a slice of feeling in his voice.  
“I won’t have a girl friend, nor ‘attitude’. No senses, no feelings.”  
Joe’s joke never fell behind. “You are not cute after you work for Boss.”  
“Of course. I am just a machine.”

It’s colder this autumn. Harold clutched his coat harder and looked down at his dog. Bear’s ears were twitching back, meaning something caught his attention. The good boy was refraining, for Harold was still looking forward. His mouth pursed and said in resignation.  
“Ms. Shaw, I am afraid today you cannot gain more pleasures from scaring me from behind.”

The person behind heard him and snorted. She leaned on the bridge rail, wearing only a thin hoodie, hands in her pockets. She rubbed her red nose. “Enjoying the wind on the bridge, Finch?”

Finch was silent for a while and took off the scarf on his neck and handed out to her. She accepted readily and entwined it on her goose-bumped neck. She gave him a note. “Our new number.”

They fell into silence together. It’s cold, but the sun was bright. They stood side by side, watching the glistening water. Then, Finch heard her asking. “So, why did you come here?”  
“Nothing in particular. Just felt like walking and it’s quiet here.”

Shaw said nothing and suddenly hopped up to sit on the rail, which frightened Finch and made him hiss. His hands clutched to her sleeve involuntarily. 

Shaw turned to the horror-struck eyes behind glasses. “Really? Finch, I am already this clumsy to you?”

Finch let go of her and glared at her disapprovingly. “Yes, Ms. Shaw, forgive me for putting myself into others’ shoes from time to time.”

Shaw turned over with pleasure, two legs dangling over the rail. They stopped talking and bathed in the sunshine. Deep in thought, they were both missing something. And then they shared a glance, as if seeing it from the deep cuts in their own hearts.

The wind started blowing, and they had to let out some of the burdens, so that they couldn’t pierce their whole being. Finch took a deep breath, lowering his voice so that the trembling wasn’t too prominent.  
“It’s been more than a year, Ms. Shaw.”  
“Is that so? Sounds like not very long.”

They looked away, watching the lawn beside the bridge. No one was there. The grass wilted. The chair was waiting for someone in desperate loneliness. Finch looked over to the sky. The distance between here and far beyond hurt him so acutely.  
“Objectively, yes. But people feel differently for the passing of time. Some seemed too long for certain people’s souls.”

...my soul.

They went back to the subway station. Shaw rolled back and forth on her chair, biting her wasabi sandwich. She picked out a piece of ham, bited off the part with wasabi and fed the rest of it to Bear. She managed to ask with her mouth full. “How long are you going to cold war with your baby machine unilaterally? Her chattering’s driven me crazy.”

Finch’s hands were busy on the keyboard, the number’s photo on the screen. His glasses reflected the info. His silence was already the answer. 

Shaw rolled her eyes, tapped her ear. “See? Daddy won’t talk to you.”

And then she started to talk to the machine in a low voice. Finch stopped his typing and turned to see those empty chairs and tables. When he returned to his work, he forgot which line he was working on so he just stared at the screen. It happened many times within this year. He was constantly forgetting certain things that had already happened. He just searched and listened, subconsciously. 

One day, he thought, I will eventually be killed by the silence in my ear and the emptiness around me. 

“Jack Roberts, 42, janitor of Watson Mortuary. No criminal records, no drinking history, he doesn’t even have traffic tickets. Donate to orphanage every month. Two years of volunteering in Africa. So, who is planning to kill our Mr. Saint?”

Finch was standing beside the glass, thinking. He could hear the noises on the other side of the phone. Fusco’s voice was not clear. He looked at his watch. Shaw should already find the number. Fusco seemed to get stuck in trouble. He decided Fusco better to take care of himself first this time. 

“Well it’s still unclear what may happen to Mr. Roberts, but Shaw will find out...before she inflicts any violence, you should finish your own work first, detective.”

Fusco raised his eyebrow and hung up the phone on his shoulder, flipping over the files passed to him. The lieutenant walked around him like a seagull starved for three months, waving his arms and shouting. “So we have zombie virus or what? A gangster without a leg just walked out of mortuary on his own? Or maybe he was some wandered princess now properly buried by his tribe? Tell me? I just cannot believe a body would disappear! A bloody dead body!”

Fusco wiped his face and shrugged to the dumbstruck suspect over the table. “Working pressure at the end of a season, huh.”

You can’t blame the lieutenant really. Even Fusco could not cope with the news very well. NYPD spent a lot of effort on the case. They even flew to Hawaii, working together with task force there, and then they manage to erase this multinational human trafficking criminal organization. The lawyers were playing word games as usual. Therefore they have to look for some new leads--this body, THE body just disappeared from the mortuary last night. 

Homicide was not supposed to be responsible for this. Fusco knew no more than some gossips from collegues. And now, staring at the file on his hand, he started to wonder since when he became the messiah of the station. Fusco had to promise he would solve this. When the lieutenant left, he sat down and paid closer attention to the case. The purloined mortuary was on the front page. The name said loud and clear: Watson Mortuary. More pages later, the saint’s name was listed there as witness, without any surprises. 

Life is so boring. Detective called Glasses. 

“The op-team is full of morons. Now we have to clean up their messes. Johnny, take care of this before the police catch up.”

Joe’s voice came through built-in comms and John was fixing the cuts from last task and stitching up the outer skin. He rose to sit beside the table and turned on the computer, half naked. The info was compressed and sent to him. He decompressed it into a usb drive and plugged it into the back of his ear. A series of neural rejections passed and he opened his eyes.

“New instructions confirmed.”

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. John looked back at the scattered bandages on the bed. They were all stained by blood and blue fluids. He picked them up, threw into dustbin and burnt them all with half a bottle alcohol. 

He drank some water, checked his battery and left with full set of weapons. 

Jack Roberts, his target this time. He got the address, drove to the back of the mortuary and parked his car there. He put the handgun into his pocket, surveying the lot, pausing at the cruiser. Then he turned around and added a KRISS Vector, hidden behind his long black trench coat. 

He headed towards the building next to the mortuary. The company in the building had a storage room above the mortuary. There was a door connecting the two buildings. 

While he was crossing the square, a boy with a baseball ran into him. His head hit the gunstock, making a clicking sound. The boy rubbed his forehead, curiously staring at John’s coat, and not remembering to apologize. 

John saw the boy’s father walking towards him to say sorry, and the boy pointed to the coat and was about to say something. The man was approaching. John put his hands into his pockets. 

The man’s words echoed in his brain: John, a machine only needed to calculate the best moves beside following instructions. Remember, it doesn’t have to be reasonable to be effective. 

Joe was still monitoring him from somewhere and he screamed. “WOW WOW, Johnny, you cannot kill a bunch of parents and kids on broad daylight.” 

John took out a drone, one wing broken. The father walked in and sighed apologetically.  
“I am sorry. Did he break it? I am so sorry.”  
The boy whispered, “I am sorry. I heard a sound. It must be me.”

John, as a Mr. Good, expressed his regret at unable to operate it today and declined their offer to compensate elegantly. He left with his mechanical smile. Joe’s voice came again.

“I must have been traumatized by the ops to think you’d kill the family.”  
“Those were not effective steps.”  
“OK. I know you’d do it if they were. Tell me to warn you against it.”  
“I don’t get it.”  
“Even the history of Decima hasn’t been splendid, we’d avoid such madness. After all, we are... Oh, I mean, I am not a machine. I feel things.”  
John entered the building and found access upstairs without raising suspicions.  
“That sounds excessive.” He replied. 

The first floor of the mortuary was empty, with the door unlocked, though. It seemed the target clocked in but left later. He walked around, found the CCTV and register log from last night and destroyed them all.

“He is not here. I am heading to his home.”

Shaw sat on the chair, looking down at the fluffy creatures on the ground.  
“Tell me why I can’t tie him up to safehouse.”  
Finch’s high pitched emphasis came, “Manners, Ms. Shaw. Manners.”

Her mouth twitched, staring at the white cat, which was now licking her apple tea.  
“Hey, manners. It’s mine.”

Mr. Roberts lived alone, little short and fat. He was more of a baker than his own profession. Now he was cooking a large pot of salmon and pork liver for his cats. They smelt nice to Shaw. 

Earlier, Roberts told her what he saw last night. He mentioned the increased fake claim and loss of dead bodies. But most of them were homeless, so no one really cared. They set up a night shift any way. Last night he was on duty. Those people said they were investigating the bodies and showed him license of quarantine. When they left, Roberts saw from the bathroom window they were stealing a body. They had guns, so he didn’t do anything more than watching. Luckily, one man’s coat was scratched by the edge of the stretcher, revealing a logo on his shirt. 

Roberts drew her the logo. They decided to transfer him to somewhere safer. 

It’s Decima.

The cat person, though, had to go back home to prepare enough food for his cats. So Shaw had to tag along, waiting for Fusco to pick them up.

“Found anything yet Finch? Why is our old friend stealing bodies?”  
Finch adjusted his glasses, feeling the sweat on his nose bridge. Decima was like a knife. It died away with the losses. Now it emerged from darkness and opened his unhealed wound.  
“I don’t think I can acquire more information for the time being than the machine. All their traces were hidden. I tried to use part of Samaritan’s code to track them down, but ...”

The red box popped out on the screen. Finch had to support his neck with his hand.  
“I failed. Their systems now have nothing to do the Samaritan any more. I am afraid it’s quite impossible in a short time.”

Shaw shrugged. The machine was saying almost the same thing in her ears. She lost confidence from both parties and drained the apple tea on the table.  
“All right, guess we have to wait for them to find us.”  
“Do be more careful, Ms. Shaw. I hope the excitement in your tone is my mere illusion.”  
Of course it’s not illusion. She clutched to her gun. She couldn’t wait to punch those bastards.

The sun just set when Fusco’s car stopped downstairs. Shaw was only out of the building with Roberts when a familiar sense of danger attacked her, the sense of being aimed.  
The gunshot was heard the moment she pushed Roberts aside. The bullet hit the hood, leaving a clear trace. Shaw was amazed.  
“Nice shot. I am buying one of the big guns, too.”  
Fusco lowered to kick open the door and dragged Roberts to the back of the car, shouting at Shaw. “Leave the lovey dovey. We are stuck here.”  
He was about to cram Roberts and himself into the car, and just then the bullets hit the car quick and fast, leaving holes and white traces. His new leather shoes were cut by one of the bullets. He could not help cursing.  
“Jesus, what nuts would fire rifles in the middle of a city?”

Finch listened nervously to the progress on the other side. He was took by the words momentarily. The earphones were silent, too. So was Fusco. He and Shaw both squeezed a smile.  
“I can’t believe I am saying this, but I miss this damn much.”

Shaw humphed as agreement, threw her empty magazine into the trunk and took out a M16.

“John’s stash. Show time baby.”

She raised the gun and left. Just then, their shooter emerged from the corner and walked towards them in long strides. 

The shooting stopped, Finch heard their hisses. He was upset. Ever since he came back from Italy, this had been the most fierce fight, and the sudden silence could not be good. He stood up abruptly.  
“Is everything alright? Ms. Shaw? Detective?” 

Finally, after the seemingly forever a few seconds, Fusco’s dreamy voice came through.  
“Holy crap, Glasses... Wonderboy just came back to life as Angel of War.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally they are going to meet!


	3. Chapter 3

There were no differences between days and nights. The lights were always on and Finch sat still in front of the computer.  
Five screens were all playing the same video: black and white pictures, a tall man in his trench coat walked across the street, holding his guns. His face was blurred, unrecognizable. It lasted only 40 seconds, before the man shot the camera neatly and it went black. 

It went black and replayed again back to 40 seconds ago, on and on.

Finch stared at the silhouette. The video had been played thousands of times. Every step and every motion were imprinted in his brain. He watched all night and still kept it on. Recovering from the initial sadness, ecstasy, shock, doubts and all the complicated feelings, he was not that upset over this small clip of video. It’s just every time he pressed the close button, he couldn’t make it. The face was unreadable for some unknown reason, he just watched again and again. The thought that turning it off would make the man disappear again was drowning him deep in fear. 

A low mumble of curse came from behind. He did not have to turn to know it’s Shaw. She hesitated yesterday when she met John. John did not. Bullets running to her mercilessly. Luckily she wore bullet-proof vest, but not enough to avoid the tissue fractures. She stayed in Ms. Groves’s room for the night. The pain kept her toss and turn on her bed. 

It surely suffered to be hit by a few rifle bullets. Harold could not help but remembering John going through the same thing when he rescued Shaw. He stayed in the library then, kept awake all night by the pain and mumbling in his low and rasp voice. Bear could not stand him and trotted away.  
“I need distractions, Finch. I am hurt when breathing.” He told Finch then.

Finch thought of the green eyes that were complaining and whining. He smiled. He reached out his hand towards the small shadow on the screen. His fingers rippled the screen. It looked like transparent sea separating two worlds. 

Shaw sat on the sofa with frightful expressions and Finch realized his spine and back were killing him. Shaw glared at the video, letting out a long and low sigh, like a dragon unable to spit out fire.  
“Don’t tell me, you watched the video for...”  
She raised her elbow in a half crippled way, and saw the watch.  
“15 hours!”  
Finch turned back in surprise, his neck giving out a muffled noise. It’s painful.  
“Noon already? I am very sorry Ms. Shaw. I only prepared breakfast for you, which was cold already, I am afraid. I could... oh...OK”  
She was already looking at him with her mouth full.

He hesitated for another second, and finally paused the video. He rose from the chair. The pain on the back made him clench his teeth. He closed his eyes and willed it over.

The gunshot wound a year ago hurt his kidney. It was infected for not being treated in time, leaving this backache.

Shaw took the painful Finch in while chewing her sandwich and switched her gaze to the video.  
“I am going to find him. I don’t forgive someone shooting me right at my chest.”

Finch’s terrible pain subsided. He relaxed and poured himself a cup of coffee, smiling to Shaw.  
“I am terribly curious. How are you going to deal with him?”  
“Kick him in the ass. His Vector is mine now.”  
The eagerness told the importance of the latter. He sipped his coffee, recollecting what happened yesterday. John was heading towards Roberts after attacking Shaw, but he changed his mind suddenly and ran to his car and took off from the scene.  
He was following someone’s orders. That much was obvious. The idea that it could be Decima that’s controlling John enraged Finch. Yes, he was again taken by the uncontrollable fury.

Shaw put on her coat and walked by him. Finch did not stop her, just watching her back and saying, “if you want to take a break outside, feel free to. But if you are seeking John, that won’t be necessary.”  
He met her inquiring gaze and walked to his computers. He pressed a button. The screens were filled with John’s pictures, on all sorts of police warrants and criminal records.  
“Actually I disclosed part of John’s ‘glorious’ history. I am afraid the entire New York police department and every mobster are looking for him and...” He pressed another button. A few bank transfer records showed.  
“I activated some accounts from my separate identities to transfer the money to various gangsters and those... paid-off government officials. So, any party that gets him first, they’d give him to me.”

Shaw found it hard to process. It took her a while.  
“I thought you’d hope to talk to him. This, doesn’t seem like something you normally do.”  
“I presume it’s you that told me John was not quite himself.”  
She scratched her hair.  
“I did. I thought so. But you two always got along better. I thought you’d choose to trust him.”  
That made Finch pause for a bit. Then he continued.  
“I trust John, at any time. That’s why I am certain something is wrong.”

The man would never work for Decima, nor killing people for them. The 15 hours of sitting alone opened his first conversation with the machine. According to her, Decima somehow blocked John’s facial info. and the camera could not recognize. It’s definitely not the machine’s flaw, it’s John’s, which didn’t make sense at all. Human’s face should not be blocked. 

The machine managed to update her searching system and detect the abnormality. She accessed John’s video footprints over the few months. He killed a lot of people, innocent people. 

Shaw shrugged, hands in her pockets. “Let’s hope the people you hired are aware of his brutal nature. After all, man-in-the-suit doesn’t aim at people’s kneecaps any more.

Finch raised his eyelids, eyes dark blue behind those thick glasses. “I don’t care.”

The surprised even Shaw, as if they flashed back to the night when Finch sat alone on Grace’s porch, his face unreadable under the dim lights and saying “kill them all”. Only it was still a hypothesis then, and now it permeated deep in his eyes. She heard herself saying:  
“God, Harold, you crazy?”

He said nothing, pouring the already cold coffee into the sink. He looked at the coffee stain dyed-brown edge of the cup for a long time, long enough that Shaw had already left. He sighed. “Maybe I have been, long time ago.”

John had to pull off the wire from the charging pole when the bloody siren rang. He ran towards a quiet alley. Nothing in his ear, his electricity was not enough for communications. It’s alarmingly low. His weakened heartbeat meant he was about to be forced into sleep.

Everything went wrong after the damn task three days ago. He just could not figure out what on earth happened. Joe made him retreat when he was in advantage. All the following tracking down made him difficult to make a move at all. His photos were all over the city and finding a hotel became impossible. He lost contact with Joe and HQ had not tried to rescue him. Even worse, he couldn’t get any instructions. Every time he tried to reach out, he’d be detected. 

He stumbled through the alley, the entrance became blurry in the rain. The cold late autumn rain made him shiver uncontrollably. They told him he would not feel cold, but his body would still be damaged by the coldness. He needed electricity to adjust his body temperature. 

He had to find power supply ASAP, or his functions would stop and became a body. If the status quo remained for too long, he’d never wake up. 

The fucking alley seemed endless. He rested against the wall. The phone rang. It’s quite eerie in the middle of night. He turned to see and there was an old pay phone nearby. People would assume it’s broken if it were not screaming hysterically. He stared at it until it stopped ringing. It rang again in less than five seconds, as if it were made for John. 

Maybe it was. Could be the HQ. He made it to the phone and picked up, asking in his cold tone. “Who are you?”  
“Oh it’s so nice to hear your voice, sweetie. Although it’s difficult to explain, I am your friend.”  
“I don’t have a friend.”  
“Too soon to say that. Anyway, please wait for a second.”

He was about to ask what to wait for. He could not decide whether it’s from HQ without clear instructions. He was not able to judge on his own. The other side was quiet. He waited for a while and instinctively felt wrong. Just then, the woman’s voice came.  
“OK, here they are.”  
A strong current ran into his nape. It damaged his power circulation immediately. He lost consciousness quickly.

Fusco looked at Reese, fully baffled and then looked at his stun gun, turning to Shaw.  
“Am I delusional? I saw his neck sparkling like my son’s electric dog.”

Finch got to the safehouse as soon as he got Fusco’s call. They brought back most of them after Samaritan’s gone. Everything was back to normal like in the library except a few people.

His full attention was taken by the person collapsed on the sofa. It’s been so long since he saw him last. He had not realized how profoundly he missed him before he finally saw his face. After a while, he remembered to ask.  
“What happened?”

Fusco licked his lips not without some guilt. “For the records, I just meant to put him down, but he was out for kind of too long.”  
Shaw was examining John by the coach. She got up, baffled and put away her stethoscope.  
“It’s weird. His organs sound strange. In other words...”She looked at Finch, puzzlement in her eyes.  
“He isn’t like a human.”

The room was deadly silent for a while. “I am afraid I don’t get what you mean, Ms. Shaw.”  
“His body is filled with all sorts of sounds. But believe me, none of them belong to human organs. Especially his heart, and I am pretty sure he doesn’t have a real heart, by normal standards.”

Finch looked at Reese. He found himself stricken by some really, really horrendous ideas, and he couldn’t stand any longer. So he sat down on the sofa, staring at his hands on his knees.  
“I don’t understand.”

Fusco went over and observed Reese. “So, what’s going on now? Wonderboy became Frankenstein?”

Finch and Shaw stayed quiet. The joke didn’t sound like fun now. Maybe it’s not a joke any more. Fusco screamed. “Hey guys, he is awake.”

John was awaken by the erratic running of currents in his body. After the noise died away, he first heard someone’s calling. Then he saw the enemy who made everything go wrong three days ago. He wanted to stand up but failed. 

He was about to lose consciousness. This was last bit of his back up energy, only enough to support his thinking and talking. He had to save it.

A short man in a suit came to him, limped. He lowered his body with clear reluctance. He was staring at him all along. John saw the eyes full of tears and concern. They were so...  
Tender. He thought and the word was never heard of or used. 

“Mr. Reese, we never expect we could meet again, isn’t it?” The man’s voice was quivering. He made John feel different, like the contentment when he was fully charged. He tried to pull the man’s face into his brain and searched for a reason. He was not supposed to feel anything or made a comparison between two feelings. Why did he think of being charged?

A hand touched him while he was in his reverie, from the short man. He hated touch, but not against this man’s. The man caressed his eye, and John could feel his skin, and ...temperature?  
“Your eyes, Mr. Reese. God, what have they done to you?”

He looked at the man silently. He was sure then he was friend of John Reese’s while he was alive, probably his lover. But more importantly now, he need charging. The “can’t be identified” instructions had to give way to his living.

Finch could not articulate his feelings, his rage and sorrow. The blue eye hurt him deeply. They hurt him, tortured him and even took a part away from him. His best friend, his John.

“Please...”  
The silent John suddenly said something, and Finch raised his glance promptly.  
“What is it?”  
“...Give me electricity, that, give it to me.”

All attention went to the cord behind the fridge. It’s for the fridge but disused because they had not bothered to connect it. It’s wrapped there.  
Shaw suddenly pulled up Reese’s shirt and rummaged for something. Finch looked at her, dazed, mumbling “no”, “no”.

Fusco brought the cord to him. “This is crazy enough, even for us.”

Shaw eventually found the bandage covered spot. She opened it, a bloody cut revealed. She used her knife to tear it open and drew a deep breath.

She looked back, her all along cold face wavered. She looked at Finch with sorrow. Finch was trembling all over when he saw the charging socket under the cut. He breathed in labor, tears finally running over his face. He suppressed the too strong pain and spoke gently, smiling to him.  
“It’s alright John. Let’s get you charged.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was back with the team, physically.

Morning News was still on the shooting three days ago. The sun just rose a little above the building, reaching the window of the safehouse, letting in the golden sunshine. The ray connected Finch’s gaze to Reese’s closed eyes. Finch moved a chair to sit beside him, not moving or talking. He spent the whole night staring at the man on the sofa.   
“Maybe we should not bring him conscious, Finch.”  
Shaw was saying behind him. She sat beside the table, hand propping her forehead, tiredness clear to see. Unsurprisingly, all she got was a silence from Harold. She waited a while and say. “If something’s wrong with his inside structures, then our examinations from outside are pointless. Trackers and wire taps are probably built in.” She switched her glance to Reese again, sighing.  
“Finch...”

She rose to walk beside Finch and knelt down. She watched him and raised her arms. A gun was pointed to Reese’s temple, blocking the sight between Reese’s face and Finch’s gaze. The blue and beautiful eyes fluttered. Finch watched in horror and asked, “What are you doing?”

Shaw snorted, but not to Finch.  
“If you don’t wish to open your eyes, I can close them forever.” She then stared at the man on the sofa, who seemed to be sleeping forever. Finch followed her gaze. The eyelids covered with thick eyelashes abruptly opened. Different colors ran coldly into Finch. In a flashy moment, Finch saw something deeper from the eyes, destiny maybe, or God’s will. It scorned him with contempt, cursed him with malice, pushing him to perdition.

Finch looked at him. Shaw was talking.  
“You don’t need sleep, right?”  
“Mostly, no.”  
“So you just listened to our talking. Let me guess. You have something on you that connects to Decima?”  
He did not answer to that, hesitation palpable. He was still laying there, unlike what he’d do. The man used to run around non-stop. Wheelchair days almost killed him.  
“My electricity is enough to run all functions. I don’t need contacting anyone.”

The words were like a thousand needles piercing through Finch’s ears. He closed his eyes, “function” deafening in his ear. 

Shaw saw that. Finch opened his eyes quickly. His funny expressions dissipated like winds. He tried a few times, finally able to speak in a calmer way.  
“Someone is talking to you, I mean now, right?”  
He nodded a few seconds later. Finch felt himself dying gradually in despair. The left sense in him was struggling to keep him from collapsing.   
“Since he can hear us talking. I presume he also knows our location.”  
This time, silence was longer. Just when they were all waiting for his answer, he stood up. The sudden progress made Shaw raise her gun. John approached Finch as if he hadn’t seen the gun. They were face to face now and Finch swore he could smell the special bitterness on him. 

Within such short distance, his face made their reunion so real and yet so ridiculous. His eyes were blank. He said word by word.  
“Better, I can even see you.”  
The sun was higher now. Sunshine spread on the sofa. Finch could see the his blue eye’s pupil dilated. He looked at it.  
“How may I address you, then?”  
“One who cleans up messes. Mr. Finch, I am sorry our first conversation is ahead of my initial plan.”  
“Very necessary, though.”

The familiar voice said “Finch” again. He recalled it and even hallucinated it for countless times, never imagine it would be back like this. Reese was repeating the mysterious man’s words without a slice of emotion.  
“Sounds like you are not in favor of our relationship. Please don’t treat me like Greer. He was crazy. I am just doing business. And, my admiration for you is ...milder.”

Finch faced the blue eye quietly. He squinted his eyes on hearing those. Reese looked at this human being in front of him. The gentle and sad person was somehow different now. He raised his jaw and tilted his head, his pride revealed little by little in his eyes.   
“I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Business. I have never in my life disagreed more on ‘gentle’ proposals like now.”  
He leaned closer, contemplating his wording and said in a firm and low voice.  
“I will find you and make you pay for everything you’ve done for John. I will make it very, very slow. I promise, sir. I promise.”

Laughter ran in his ear and Reese was waiting for his reply.   
“John, I need you to stay with Mr. Finch. Obviously, you’d bring us some powerful enemies if you come back now.”  
Reese watched Finch in doubt. He wanted to ask what to do specifically. “Staying” did not sound like a detailed one, for him. But raising questions was not something a good machine should do, either. So he just repeated the words obediently.  
“I had nothing to do with John Reese’s death. Would you rather let his body rot or recycle it? Look at him, Finch, it’s like John is still alive, and even bet..”  
“Stop it...”  
“OK, I will leave you alone then. John could stay there, as my peace offer. And rest assure he won’t attack people, without instructions of course. Oh please don’t try to dismantle John’s ...”  
“STOP!” Harold’s stern words loud. He stood up abruptly and chair was pushed to the ground, making a loud bang, Reese looked at him alertly, the hostility made Shaw drew his gun again.

The room was tense and quiet. Finch felt his blood running fiercely in the veins, his temple painful for some illusional sounds, his soul growing into some thorns and piercing his skins, cutting him into pieces and hanging him in the air. 

Eventually, all he could do was sigh, and, “John, stop. Please just... don’t pass on messages for him.”  
John observed him attentively, blinking his eyes.  
“He can’t. I am controlling him. I own him.”  
Shaw decided she had had enough and pointed the gun to his head.   
“OK even you think you are a phone now, we have the right to hang up. Now, I am hanging up.”  
Reese looked her for a while and frowned.  
“I am not a phone.”

Finch waited and Reese said nothing more. The other party stopped talking. He felt exhausted. He brought the chair up. He wanted to say something to Shaw but his vision blackened once he turned. He fell backwards. He did not black out, at least he was still conscious. He could feel a pair of hands holding him before he fell and putting him gently on the sofa. Then his vision came back after this brief moment of blindness. He saw the pair of blue-green eyes watching him with confusions.

John would never look at him again like he did in the past. The beautiful green eyes were taken away.

He fainted for lack of sleep. He hadn’t slept for three days. Shaw glanced at the bedroom. She knew he was more stubborn than he looked. Persuading him into bed was difficult.   
Luckily she was good at solving difficult cases.   
Shaw and Reese stared at each other, not moving an inch. This was a total competition. They just looked at each other, which would be quite embarrassing for others. But obviously neither of the two had any experiences with this specific feeling. Shaw did not know how she should feel about gaining his old friend back and now he just looked like a familiar stranger. Maybe he was a stranger.

She would not say that to Finch. Even she could relate to this. She’d feel some hope left when the machine talking to her in that voice. She knew it was not real and yet chose to believe. How could she be that cruel to rob that hope from Finch? He had wilted since, long enough he was going to melt into the ground of the subway station and buried himself in the past forever.

“Please don’t hurt him. I don’t care what the fucking voice says in your brain. You remember that. DO NOT hurt him.”  
Shaw’s voice brought him back. He was absent since staying with her alone. His instruction was “stay”, so he just did. It took him a while to understand the “him” she mentioned. He did not get instructions to hurt him, so he didn’t understand.   
“Why?”  
The woman walked to him and said. “Because someone used to give up everything to save Finch. He made it. He would not let you to upset Finch. You just can’t do it.”

Reese turned back to the bedroom. He could see from the open door that Finch was not sound sleep. His shirt was rumpled. His nose bridge and temple showed the prints of glasses. He was not so meticulous as before. No threats at all. He could kill him easily with an instruction. But he did not see the need to do it without one. So he gave Shaw the fact.  
“You did not answer my questions. Instructions are all I need. I won’t do it without one.”

Shaw grasped his collar. “Damn it stop talking like that...you are already killing him.”  
Reese saw some redness in her eyes. She clenched her teeth. “Don’t take his hope away. You just gave it to him.”

This was anger, and feeling. Reese could realize clearly that he was feeling emotions. Shaw gave it to him. The people he killed gave him fears. Human beings feared a lot of things. The looks they gave him before they died were like looking at monsters. While in Decima, only the girl named Claire gave him weird looks. There was an invisible wall between him and the others. They all communicated with each other in feelings and only instructions with him. 

Shaw did not. And Finch...Finch gave him love.   
He touched his heart, hesitating. “Maybe, you could tell me. I can’t understand you. But I can do what you say.”  
Shaw scratched her ponytail, suppressing the urge to punch him.  
“You mean instructions.”  
“No, not instructions. I don’t follow YOUR instructions. It’s just...”  
John looked at Finch.  
“I don’t know, either. I want to do it, for him.”  
He turned back to Shaw, beautiful color bright in his eyes. He did not know what happened to him. But this, feeling? It made him feel alive. He smiled.  
“I want to make him happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just felt so sorry for Finch. I cried when I was translating this part.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was feeling something now.

Fusco was knocking at the door with lunch when Finch woke up. He brought some so called good news. The body purloined from the mortuary had been found, thanks to an anonymous tip.

Shaw was rummaging through Finch’s lunch with a bag of marmalade in her mouth. “So our Mr. Fluffy is safe now?”  
“Well.” Fusco cast a glance to the silent big guy. “It depends on Mr. T-800.”

Finch was sipping his tea, glaring at Fusco at the new name. Then he looked at Reese, the terminator seeming harmless now. He stretched his long legs on the sofa, back propped on the armrest, deep in thought while clutching to a pillow. His feet were naked. The sun shone on them, making them half transparent. Finch spent some time to realize they were not human feet.

The explosion a year ago echoed again in Finch’s ear. He looked up from John’s feet, caressing his body with his gaze, wondering how many parts no longer belonged to him. Those were blown up and became irreparable fragments. Yet the ashes used to be blood and flesh, part of his alive John...

“Hey glasses, don’t nip your water like a real bird. You got to eat something.”  
Fusco startled him. He saw the instant pasta in front of him. The red meat sauce hurt his eyes, making him sick. He put it away almost instinctively, adjusting his breath minutely to press it down.  
“I am afraid I am not having a good appetite, given Mr. Reese current situation.”

Fusco bit his hamburger and asked others. “Hey John, you up to eating? I bought enough for four people.”  
John had not drunk a drop of water since they brought him here from the alley, except for the charging. But it should not be enough for a normal person. Finch got nervous for Fusco’s words. He did not want to hear the answer, not quite, but he had a good guess already.

Reese saw the food on the table. “I don’t need...”  
He stopped, aware of something, and looked at Shaw. He then smiled to Finch.  
“I am not hungry.”

Fusco watched all these, about to say something. Shaw kicked him from under the table. So he just messed with Shaw then.  
After this was over, John went back to his usual position. Joe’s voice was heard again.  
“Wow, John, such a talented actor. Look at the way the genius is looking at you. I am about to cry. Come on, don’t waste the good hardware of John Reese. Once Mr. Genius trusts you as much as he was to John Reese, we can find the Machine.”

Ever since John’s talk with Shaw, he was acting according to Joe’s hints, giving answers like John Reese would. He was not like those low-end robots. He could imitate human emotions if he chose to. He did not know whether there were some other emotions when he talked about Finch. Those words came out too naturally that they almost felt like something he was willing to do. Now Joe’s words made him sick. For the first time he felt mad when Joe just separated he and John Reese so clearly. Because...

The short man came here from the table with a cup of hot drink. He approached him with caution. John looked at him. His anger towards Joe must have been there will, for the man’s actions were uneasy under his gaze. His voice quivered a bit.  
“No offense, but you might want some drink.”  
When John did not reach out his hand, he hurried to add.  
“I know you don’t need this, but the black tea tastes great. It’s from the shop you liked, in the garden... Never mind.”  
Sorrow came back to the shorter man. John watched him putting the cup into his hand and then the pair of hands that gave him feelings promptly left.  
“We could still enjoy even if we don’t need it, don’t you think?”  
John raised his head, and Harold was smiling to him.

That’s it. If John was not John Reese, then this smile had nothing to do with him. But now, John did not feel liking sharing the smile with the dead man. He accepted the tea, and Harold sat beside him. He was cautious, observing John’s reactions from time to time. John curled his legs and made room for Finch. That was acceptance. Finch sat there for a long time. The blindingly strong sunshine was diluted by the dark clouds. Finally, he sighed.  
“This is difficult, isn’t it? Being lost and forgetting everything and living in this world not knowing. The worst part is you realize you are different from everyone around you.”  
John said nothing but Joe was commenting. “See, genius are also philosophers.”  
“Someone used to tell me, I mean my father, he said when one lost his memory, he lost part of him, the most important part. I think that means he lost his soul, with only an empty body left.”

Harold turned to him, his face not clear in the dim lights, only the golden patterns on his tie glistening.  
“Tell me, Mr. Reese, are you still there?”  
They looked at each other. John could hear Joe asking him to say something sweet. But he did not feel like doing.  
Mr. Reese, are you still there?  
The question was like a key, searching in his body for a connection, but blocked by the wall inside him. His loose thoughts were trying to reach the key but failed. 

Suddenly, Joe’s voice stopped, followed by a sharp noise in his ear. It pierced into his mind through his artificial ear, making his brain vibrate, obstructing his functions. He was like being stricken by a thunder, curled in the sofa and finally rolling to the ground.

Fusco was soon there when he heard his screaming. He held the man tightly and saw Shaw’s impassive face. “What? What’s wrong this time?”  
Finch’s face was painful, as if John’s pain was inflicted on him, too. But he just reached to touch John’s spasmed feet lightly. “Pull him up.” And then he said, dissatisfied, “I think you should tell me beforehand that response to prevention is this strong.”

Fusco rolled his eyes. Of course, who else could it be other than the all-knowing god of theirs? He held him to sit on the sofa. He was shivering all over, not recovering entirely from what just happened. He was at a loss and frightened. Fusco had never seen him like this. If they had been in the past, he would have mocked his old friend. But now he felt only sorrow.

Here the Machine was explaining. “Sorry, Harold. There were no better ways. His electricity connects every part of him. This happens as long as I make a move. But good news is I cut his GPS and communications. Thank you for drawing his attention. Now he can only hear from me from his built-in comms.”  
Finch looked to Reese, who was frowning now. He gestured Fusco to move and himself sat down beside Reese, holding his shoulders.   
“Don’t worry, John. It’s all good now.”  
“I am afraid it’s not.” The machine cut in.  
“I have to cut the camera, too. You know what that means. His other eye will be blind for a while. I have not figured out his body structure yet. From what I gathered, this super-human invention could only be left by Samaritan.”  
“So?”  
“I will find out soon. Before that, I think it better that you tell him.”  
Finch snorted at himself, mumbling. “Good, now I am the stranger who keeps hurting him.”

John on the sofa was recovering from the pain, eyes darting to the knife on the table. Shaw beside the table shooting him a warning. “Don’t.”

He evaluated his situation shortly. He lost contact again. They were tampering with his head in some way. Under this circumstance, it’s hard to make it out safe and sound. Unless, unless he used Finch as a hostage. Finch, the only weak spot in this game.

Am I going to hurt him? He heard himself asking. This complex and difficult question was something he could not cope with. The woman’s voice rang in his ear, “John, we have better ways out of this. Don’t do the one you are contemplating now. I don’t want to hurt you.”  
That’s the voice from the pay phone last night. How did she find out his built-in network? If she had access, then he and Joe’s conversations were probably wire-tapped as well, then...

A nice smelling handkerchief was handed to him. Seeing that John was not going to take it, Harold used it to wipe the tea on the sofa. He was doing this slowly and saying, “I am sorry John. Your clandestine talk with Decima had to stop for a while. And Mr. Reese.”  
He put down the handkerchief on the tea table and blinked at John gently.  
“For whatever purposes it may be, thank you for the words with Ms. Shaw. In fact I have never been happier in the past year, because you are here now.”

The smell of tea spread now and John can smell it. He realized now the person in front of him might not be as harmless as he judged before. And he did not feel very bad about it. If he could still talk to Joe, he’d tell him that their judgments towards Finch was wrong. Finch was kicking ass good.   
“I don’t understand. Then why did you let her hurt me. She made me hurt. I’ve never felt hurt before.”  
Finch and Shaw exchanged a look on hearing that. He said tenderly. “Because I can not let you do wrong things and do nothing about it. Please bear with it for a while. We need to cut your camera connection. It hurts.”  
John looked at him and accepted it.

The bedroom door was ajar, and Fusco saw from it that John was sitting alone on the bed. He lost one eye’s sight and he seemed not caring much.   
“You know, he is different than I’d imagined. I thought he’d go mad or something but nothing happened.”  
Fusco moved a chair to Finch and said. Finch was thinking about something, frowning.  
“The feelings you mentioned are too complicated for Mr. Reese now. His hostility towards us was from Decima’s orders. When he had the neutral instructions like ‘stay’ and ‘win our trust’, he’d do nice things to us. When there are no orders at all, he’d be at a loss like now. Of course, this is a mere prediction from me and the machine. It may not be entirely correct.”

Fusco rubbed his nose, not knowing what to say.  
“Oh, thanks for your explanations. Now I think John needs to see some shrinks.”  
He held out and waved his hands in surrender when he received his partners’ glares.   
“What? I can not bear him looking like this.”  
Finch was sitting on the sofa stiffly, hands on his back. The sofa in the safehouse was definitely not fit for his picky and fragile body. He waved to them weakly, ending this small talk on John.  
“Let’s stick to our plans. John is not meeting anyone for now.”  
“How about Zoe? If she asks, I will just say it’s about numbers?” Shaw asked.  
“That’s right. Don’t mention John at all. I have no intention to bring her into this.”

Shaw tapped on the table to show her understanding. The machine found out there were some connections between Decima and some research programs founded by the government. They were subtle but the machine spotted them anyway. For the details, Zoe had to help and find out. If they wanted to find more about John, they had to know what it was that Decima was studying, medical... or something they would not like.

Fusco would focus on the missing dead bodies and the homeless people, and Shaw had to take care of the never stop coming numbers. John’s coming back, the missing of the bodies. They could not help but feeling there was a bigger plan converging into the center and eventually turning into a gigantic whirlpool. They were all pondering for the unforeseeable future. Fusco patted his hands.  
“What to do with our Mr. Wall-E (robot’s name)?”

Finch rose, and the pain was making him waver. His health deteriorated recently. Maybe the doctor’s advice was correct. He should’ve been sitting on a wheelchair. It would make him more comfortable. But he was not in a mood to do it nor the situation allowed him to.  
“I will take care of him. And, Detective Fusco, I did not know you are so into science fictions.”  
For someone gentle and subtle as Finch, this could be counted as anger. Fusco stopped talking for that. But Shaw was not satisfied with Finch’s solutions. She stopped him.  
“This is not a good idea, Finch. He is not safe now, at least for you. I think maybe he should...”  
“No,” He stopped her quickly, and looked at her, letting her know he was not going to step back.  
“I won’t let John out of my sight, not any more.”  
“Ok then, where are you going to take him to?”  
That was easy to answer. He looked at the one who was now drawn to the rain outside of the window. His pursed lips finally loosened a bit. “Home.“

Finch’s home was a penthouse on the upper east of Manhattan. It was empty while Samaritan was on line and Finch only moved back in a year ago when everything settled down. If today it was the old Reese he brought back home, the Reese who tried to explore his privacy and address, he would pat his best friend on the shoulder and shared a glass of fine whiskey he stored, listening to his mockery about his extravagant style of living.

And now, he stepped out of his private elevator, listening to the man’s steps after him. He was slow, the man’s step was almost on his, and then forced to stop. 

It’s raining outside. It had been for a few nights. Maybe it’s another freezing winter this year. He turned back. Reese was standing in the middle of his living room full of numerous art collections. The Reese must feel restrained, like an amour from mid-age, tall and edgy, out of time.

He sat down on the sofa in front of the window. John followed, like a dog knowing his master too well. Finch saw his rumpled coat, terrible wool jacket, and stained jeans. He sighed.   
“I ordered a few suits for you. With all due respect, I can’t stand the outfit of yours. I think they are delivering them tonight.”

Reese lowered his head and stretched his polo shirt a bit. He didn’t think anything was wrong with his dressing steps. He did not say that aloud though. They fell into silence then.

Finch was standing in front of the window. The penthouse was high enough. It’s still early evening, but the sky was completely dark because of the rain. He overlooked New York. It’s bright like galaxy, while the real sky above was dead black. He looked outside silently, and spoke after a long time.  
“I am very proud, Mr. Reese. Someone used to say that. I admit it. You know, when one reaches a certain height, an overall height, he could see far beyond on that spot. The vast sea, mountains, even the whole universe. Time and space, sense and sensibility, I know everything. I know what is right and what is wrong. I can do almost anything. But I chose not to do things that violate my standards of perfection, because my arrogance would not allow mistakes of mediocracy.”  
He paused and turned back to see Reese was staring at him quietly in the dark, listening. He smiled for that, looking up to see the dim sky, continued.  
“I was so arrogant that I deserted all my own beliefs. I have only mercy, kindness and justice left, just like, God. When I overlooked the galaxy, I cared for every star, I tried to make sure they all stayed in their own tracks. I didn’t interfere. I just protected them. It’s hard, isn’t it? It’s so hard to make it work. I looked as far as I could. But one day when I looked around, I found myself couldn’t stop the falling of the star closest to me.”

Harold’s voice was like pleasant melody to John in this big room. He asked, “why?”  
Harold smiled. In a moment, his blue eyes were like tears about to fall down of his sockets. He replied quietly.  
“I must have made a wish, John. That star next to me jumped off the sky in order to achieve my dream. I realized then, high as I stood, I was merely one of the stars, ordinary and lonely.”

John had never heard anything like this. He felt something bitter and warm inside his chest. He didn’t know what it was. Finch was smiling when looking at him. But John didn’t think he was happy.

Finally, Finch shook his head. There was something brighter in his eyes behind the glasses. He saw him leaving the window and walking into darkness, only his voice audible. “Everyone is measuring the world in their own perspectives, just like the sky. It is a thousand different versions for different people. But John, there is no light in my sky any more.”

John turned back to the traffic lights. Suddenly there was wetness on his face. He touched it, only then realized he was crying. The green eye of his, somehow, was crying and crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still crying for them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you see, Mr. Reese, you feel sorry and I forgive you. It fixes our feelings.

A new morning was about to come and Reese pulled open a little bit curtain of the ceiling-to-floor window, right across the sofa he was sitting on. The blanket was laid beside him, still neatly folded like they were handed to him last night. He’d already told him it was unnecessary.

Finch, the name made him look to the end of the corridor. He was sleeping in the bedroom there, which felt wrong to Reese. According his evaluation standards, it’s really unwise to sleep, unguarded, with a robot on the opponent’s side still in his room. The woman in his ear could probably hurt him, but he was run by electricity after all. He was no Applications, which she could control or kill.

“But you did not do it, did you?”  
When he relayed the doubt to her, she replied.  
“But he would not have known beforehand...”  
“He did not. But he trusts.”  
‘Trust’ is a feeling, which was unreliable according to Master. Surly he just followed orders and he had no rights to comment on it. So he said nothing and turned to look outside the window instead.

There was no sun light for it had been raining the whole night. He knew it. There were passengers on the streets already, holding their umbrellas. From Reese’s position, they looked at small moving dots, following their own tracks. 

Oddly, he thought of Finch’s words last night.

He knew the definitions of good and bad, the simplest parts. He made no judgments but it did not mean he was unaware. Caring about everyone’s well-being? That’s good. Even a killing machine like him could draw that conclusion. But why Finch was saying it like he himself made some terrible mistakes?

Finch was a good man.

He touched the wool blanket. He knew the word soft, the word warm, too. But Master said he could not feel so he was not allowed to use this sort of phrases. He could feel the blanket. The smile and voice of Finch when he gave this to him carried the same...something. No! He closed his eyes. He couldn’t cross boundaries, that’s his point of existing. 

The room was too quiet but Finch left the lights on for him. The warm and yellow lights were shining day and night just like Finch. Suddenly a high voice rang in his ear.  
“John I need your help.”  
The high pitch sound alerted him and made him tense. He stood up with clear puzzlement.  
“What is it?”  
The sweetness lessened from the woman’s voice. She was speaking faster this time.  
“Please go to Finch’s bedroom. Turn left at the end of the corridor and the second room.”  
“OK”

John was on the move. The voice was keeping talking.  
“Thank you for being so...inhibition-free. Actually Finch won’t let me do it. But John, I don’t think his persistence is bringing him any good now.”  
He was at the door now. The fancy black door was closed. He twisted the knob. Locked from inside.  
“Kick it open.”  
The words were followed by a loud bang from John’s kicking. Sawdust burst out because of the force. The door was very strong and only the lock was broken, opening a small crack. Reese saw from it that Finch was lying on his bed, not moving.  
He went back to the living room to fetch a metal walking stick out of Finch’s many collections, the gems and designs totally unseen. He grabbed, measuring for a bit.

He took it out of its bracket, knocking off something on the way, making a clear sound on the hardwood floor. He glanced at it, some sort of china, not caring. The woman in his ear said quietly.  
“Oops.”

He returned to the bedroom, levered the broken lock and forced the door open. The thud of the door on the wall startled Finch. But he only managed to move his arms, nothing more. He had meant to call it to a halt but his faint protest was drowned in Reese’s loud actions. The machine noticed but she would not listen. 

He was awake earlier than before. Actually he was only asleep for two or three hours. So many things were occupying his head, let alone a John like that. So when he was waken up by the usual pain, he did not see anything out of ordinary.

He had two pillows. A lower and thinner one to keep his spine spread out and relaxed. But if he slept with it for too long, he’d feel fierce pain from his neck and shoulder. So he also had a harder pillow. Every morning he stuffed it on his back to rest, killing the pain.

This morning when he tried to reach for the second pillow, he found himself unable to move. He tried the phone on the bed table instead, but the terrible pain attacked him from all over his body, and then the ominous paralyzing numbness.

When the machine found out, she turned on the phone and talked to him. Finch realized by then that the accumulated pain and fatigue finally reached the point of breaking out. He was paralyzed temporarily.  
Alas! His life was always full of surprises.  
“Bad time, isn’t it?”  
He was trying to joke to her, voice low and rasp. He could not even make a louder sound. The nerve system was damage, too. He felt very unwell, needing desperately to sit up and change a position.  
“Harold, you need help. I am telling John.”  
“No, I will be fine. Just let me rest for a while.”  
Finch declined the offer immediately. John should never see him like this. He needed someone strong enough to walk into the fog and lead him out of it, not someone who had trouble sitting on him own.

“Harold, please...”  
“Just, wait for a while...It will pass soon. For once in my life, I want to save me myself.”  
She was quiet. Finch should have thought so. After all she never behaved as he wished.  
When the tall man in a suit opened the door and showed up in the doorway, so many similar memories flooded him at the same time. Finch looked at him, and sighed. 

They looked at each for a long time until Reese saw the stick on his hand. He threw it on the bed and approached Finch, asking, “What’s wrong? Can you move?”  
“It’s complicated to explain, Mr. Reese. I am sorry you see me like this.”  
Reese paused, and he was not realizing he was thinking. It took him a while to respond.  
“That’s alright. I broke your door any way.”  
Finch smiled to that.

Reese did not know what to do. The voice in his ear stopped. He had no idea about the paralyzed person on the bed. What should he do? Kill him? Tie him up? Run away? These were the only options he could come up with. Or...he selected out a day from his numerous memories, the day when he killed a man on the phone with his kid. The man was smiling and saying to his kid “what do you want me to do for you?”

“What do you want me to do for you?”  
Finch was clenching his teeth for the unbearable pain, closing his eyes in anguish. At the words, he let out a twisted smile.  
“That’s good, Mr. Reese. Thinking! You came up with a question concerning me. That’s very good.”  
He opened his eyes and said, “please help me to sit.”

When Finch was carried onto the wheelchair by Reese, it was already 10 in the morning. He was wheeled out of the bedroom. The first thing he saw was the broken china lotus vase, along with its petals.  
He could not help his distress sighing.  
“I broke it.”Reese said behind him.  
Finch did not know how to respond to that. “I know, Mr. Reese. Thank you for your honesty. Push me over.”

They went over. Reese put the stick back. Finch fought to overlook the scratches and bending of it. Reese then picked up the poor broken pieces of the vase. Three petals of the flower were gone. It looked thinner and lonely.

Finch took it, considering the possibility of repairing it. Reese knelt beside the wheelchair, watching him fondling with it. He did not know why he said the following words.  
“One of my eyes was blind. It’s in my blind spot.”  
Finch turned to him, smiling.  
“Yes, I am aware of that, too, Mr. Reese.”  
His upper body was regaining control, not very flexible, though. He tried to put the pieces together and see whether the junctures were complete. He failed. Reese watched for while and said.  
“It doesn’t seem to cost a lot.”  
“No, it’s just bought from a store in Chinatown.”  
The other man was silent for a longer time and then said.  
“It’s not that broken.”

Finch finally moved his attention to Reese. He watched him tightly for a while, raising his eyebrows, waiting, in his half smile.

Under that gaze, Reese’s blank face finally showed something more like nervousness. He was measuring his words, finally said.  
“I wanted to say something, but it’s not the right words...”He raised his gaze to Finch.  
“What should I say?”  
“‘I am sorry’ might be the words you are looking for.”

Reese did not say a word. The room was quiet except for the rain outside. Just when Finch assumed he was not going to say it, Reese opened his mouth.  
“I am sorry.”  
Finch nodded minutely.  
“That’s alright, Mr. Reese.”

Finch lowered down and put the petals into the vase, and decided to leave it alone. But Reese did not feel like ending this topic. He took it in his hand and observed.  
“You see. It did not work. It’s still broken.”

For a moment, Finch did not understand what he meant. It took him a while to understand Reese was talking about the words he just said. Finch raised his hand to massage his neck and said.

“Not everything that’s broken was able to be fixed. Look at the vase, however skilled it’s fixed, the fact that it’s broken is always there. For something more important and complicated, like principles, love and life, they are immeasurably precious and fragile. Thus it’s more difficult to guard them. When we lose them because of our mistake, yes, apologies can’t reverse the status quo. But we need it nevertheless. That’s a feeling and a power, for those who suffers the loss but also for those who causes it. Acknowledging the responsibility alone is only an action without emotions at all. While apologies, apologies make us...whole. So you see, Mr. Reese, you feel sorry and I forgive you. It fixes our feelings.”

Reese looked at the man, listening to his storytelling words. He was sitting on his wheelchair, weak and pale. The rain outside the window was pouring, washing the glasses, as if drowning the small man. But his voice! His voice was so strong, his gaze so firm that he was like an indestructible lifeline for others.  
Reese was not able to respond to that quickly. He put the china and its broken pieces back. He was about to bring some milk under the woman’s suggestions. 

“Wait, Mr. Reese.”  
Finch looked down. “You like my bookmark? I am afraid I will be lost on which page I am reading.”

Reese took it out of his pocket. It’s a square metal piece, the hollowed leaf-shaped part was used to clip the page. It’s super sharp, like a small blade. Cutting one’s throat was easy with it, but surly the designer had not meant it to be used that way. 

He put it into his pocket in Finch’s bedroom. “Collect weapons any time if not equipped with one.” That was an initial instruction in him. He himself did not know what he could do with it, either.

Well, what was he going to do with it?  
He looked at Finch again, lost for words. He could lie, but not a sophisticated one. Finch saw from his eyes his silent signal for help. What should I say?

Finally Finch spoke, “It looks like you need a book to use it with. Relax, I am good at recommending one.”  
Fleeting guilt and sadness appeared on his face. He lowered his head, stood still stubbornly for a while and went to the kitchen.

“I should have found you earlier.”  
Finch’s voice came behind him. “I am sorry, Mr. Reese.”

Reese’s steps hesitated. He did not answer, because he was not the one entitled to say “It doesn’t matter”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how much I was moved when I read this chapter for the first time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one minute he cried over John was extended to almost infinity.

Finch’s room was big enough for them to avoid each other, given the embarrassing fact that one was hiding a weapon. Of course, this feeling was perhaps not mutual. He was not sure if Reese possessed that emotion already. 

Shaw’s call came in timely. She was running or probably just punched someone.  
“Got a minute Finch? Sorry to break up your little reunion with your employee. I need some help here.”  
“Of course, Ms. Shaw. It’s my pleasure.”  
Looks like their conversations did not go well, Shaw thought. She put down a bodyguard in the way, kicked open the locked exit and hid in the deserted staircase. She was treading with some difficulty with the instructions of the machine, at the same time saying to Finch, “I hate to have you do this, but we are little short of hands now.”  
“Thank you for your concern, and your appreciation for my skills.”  
“So how is our little friend doing?”

Finch turned his wheelchair around, looking to the other side of the living room. Reese was communicating with a woodcarving with his eyes. Finch pursed his lips, ready to say something, while Shaw heard a squeaking sound of his wheelchair.  
“What is that? Finch, are you really OK? I don’t want to do the talking, but you have only me to bear with now.”

Look at these observant special agents...Finch exclaimed inside and wheeled to his clothes hanger.  
“I thought the machine would inform you. Yes, I am having some kind of situation, but I will live. And, Mr. Reese is doing fine.”

The man heard his name, and stood up rapidly, hesitating on the spot. He was looking at Finch when he finished his call with Shaw. 

Finch averted his gaze and looked at the shadow of the other man on the ground.   
“I need to head out, Mr. Reese. Do you need me to bring you back anything?”  
His phone buzzed, connecting to his earpiece. The machine started talking.  
“Harold, you have to bring John with you. I did not tell Shaw because I think you have John’s help to do it.”  
“I was not talking to you.” Harold said and hung up the phone. How could he possibly let John walk out like this? Exposed to Decima? They must be looking for him. The machine blocked his connection. But he was not very stable. Finch was not blaming John, nor suspecting him. But now...He stared at Reese. John, your consciousness is buried in deep now. If you were here, you’d also agree to downgrade our trust for a while.

Finch dragged his coat off the hanger. Reese walked to him and get him dressed. When he gathered Harold into his embrace to arrange his long coat, he felt something inside his pocket. He was sure what it was. 

Their glances met shortly, scent and breath intertwining for a brief second. The secret understanding made Harold feel dreamy. But it’s only a brief moment. Reese straightened and looked at Finch.  
“I need a proper charging cord. The one of the fridge is too short and the charging power is too high. My motor pump can’t fit it well...”

Finch interrupted him quickly and rolled his wheel fast to the elevator, like he was escaping.  
“OK, I got it.”

The other man sat back on the carpet, not raising any more questions. Finch was looking at him quietly, until the elevator door closed, blocking his gaze. He has not even bothered to ask how I can lift an umbrella, he thought so while looking at the numbers of the floors changing. 

He sat in the corridor of Mount Sinai, wet spots still damp on his clothes. There were many patients and doctors walking around. The wards in front of him were more chaotic. The staff went in and out in a rush. He sat in the corner and turned on his earpiece.  
“Ms. Shaw, I am here. Mr. Line is enjoying his lunch, but unfortunately the one in Room 34 doesn’t look very well, so maybe his lunch will be interrupted soon. Are you ready?”  
“Sorry Harold, Shaw is a little busy now.”  
It’s her.  
“Harold, are you sure it’s OK. I worry about you.”

The screaming of ventilator rang loudly from No.34. Finch was feeling sorry and closed his eyes.   
“For a long time, I have been terribly rude to you, including today. I am really sorry.”  
“It’s alright. You know you never need to apologize to me. I understand how difficult it is for you these days. It has never been easy, though. What worries me most is that you are making changes, changes that you don’t wish to see. ”  
The doctors left and Mr. Line spoke something to the nurses and walked into No. 34. Finch followed his steps and ask, “I don’t?”  
“You gave me all your emotions and personalities when you built me. Thus I feel painful for the changes you make. It’s the old you that is looking at the current you. So yes, I know you don’t really like all these.”  
“Maybe you are wrong. The digital data of libraries must have been finely updated. Perhaps you should not read so many poetry and philosophy. Mr. Line is in to clean up. He is on the move. Let’s go.”

Finch used his gloved hands to lower his hat and wheeled his chair to open the door.  
The door clicked closed, the young man was pulling the plugs of the patients. The man on the wheelchair smiled to him, asking, “Excuse, is this room Green’s?”  
“Yes, who are you?”  
“Well,” He took off one glove.  
“I am his history teacher. I am in for treatment, too. so I drop by, hoping to see him.”  
“I am sorry, sir, he...”The young man wore a sorry face and lowered his voice.  
“He is fine.”The seemingly kind man interrupted him.  
“Actually I saw you dropping something in his IV fluids, and now, you are going to take him away through the door behind the mirror, right?”

The man looked at him in surprise, mumbling some denial. He pressed the button on the bedside, the expected ringing not coming. The gun with silencer Finch hid in his coat was now on his hand, pointing to the man. He was about to talk to the assaulter when Shaw spoke.  
“Hang in there for two minutes, Harold. I am on my way.”

I am afraid it’s not up to me. He thought bitterly. The guy he pointed to raised his both hands, but he was glancing to the mirror. Finch felt something was off and the man was rushing towards it. 

The bullet sizzled in the air and hit the man. He collapsed by the door. A ray of almost invisible smoke was on the gun. 

“I am not a good shooter, but enough to work.” He said.   
But his hands were trembling terribly. The gun down man wasn’t motionless. He was moaning. The hidden door behind the mirror suddenly opened. Finch raised his gun again, luckily she spoke. “It’s me.”

Shaw kicked the wounded man and he passed out. Finch put away his gun and put on the gloves again. Shaw put her hands on the handle of the wheelchair.   
“It’s worse than I imagined, Finch.”

The machine restored the electricity of this room and Line was dragged into the secret door. Shaw took care of the car Decima used to transfer experimental bodies, and now they have their specimen. She could dress as one of Decima’s, slipping in with the routes and locations Zoe provided.   
“I need your help, Finch. You might need to stay at home for some work.”  
Finch accepted the task, but he looked at the unconscious Green worriedly.  
“I can’t believe they are already experimenting on the living.”  
“Five minutes agon I could not believe you’d shoot someone with a gun. What else is impossible?”

Finch said nothing to it. He watched as Shaw disappeared into the dark door. He wheeled out of the ward. The bell began to ring in Room 34 behind him.

The rain had not stopped. He was sitting in the lobby, watching the rain against the glass. The handicapped Uber he called had not come.  
“Is your hand alright?” It’s the machine.  
He looked down at his clasped hands, enclosed by leather gloves, cold and trembling. He answered quietly.  
“It will be in a while.”  
The machine sighed, in a familiar tone Root always used in resignation, because of all his mercy and stubbornness. There was cross, respect and indulgence, and she would yield to his decisions. She always did, and so did John.   
Because of that, they were constantly on the run, and they were killed.

Finch was contemplating the question since. What have I gained? He had given so much that he never thought he could gain anything back. However, there were people he loved so much. If their indulgence for him led them to death. Then, he was supposed to think about the question for them: what have he gained? 

Then he had the answer: he was still alive. That’s what they fought for. He had to guard it, too.  
He could shoot a gun to live. He had to protect himself, also letting go of some of his mercy. He had to eliminate some threats for Shaw, for Fusco, more positively.

“Please don’t do this, Harold. John is back. Things will get back. Why don’t you just fix your principles? Go back to the line you’ve stuck to for so long. You will get hurt. God you are hurting yourself.”  
Finch sneered at that. His fingers were caressing his legs, which did not feel much. He was silent.  
“That was too much. You know my father used to say ‘not everything that’s broken was meant to be fixed’. Now I finally begin to understand it.”

A thunder stroke in front of him, followed by a deafening thunder.  
Finch thought of the day he went down the stairs. It was dark and he was covering his wound. The wet white ash on the wall was rubbing on his sleeve, mixing with the blood on his hands and splattered on his fingers. The loud explosion and terrible quake happened then, on the building next to this one. It was so close. It took away the most important person away from him. The person was ripped away from his heart and dug out. He remembered kneeling on the stage, his fingers leaving long scratching blood stains on the wall. He was crying silently. The eight million people exclaimed for the sudden explosion. The roar of it was loud enough to cover everything. The one minute he cried over John was extended to almost infinity.

That’s when Harold began to break.

John’s coming back could not fix it. The day reappeared again and again in his head. He was exceedingly happy for the regained love, but then he was ten times more scared of losing it again.

The machine broke his reverie.   
“Harold we have troubles. You can’t stay here. Some unfriendly friends are coming.”  
The elevators doors showed the lessened numbers, and they were down to the first floor fast. Finch looked at the door: the security was saying something to his walkie.   
“Go to the underground parking.”  
He did not have time to ask and followed, wheeling his chair and moving out of the lobby at her directions. It could be the rain but the parking lot was full of people, with cars coming and going. A lot of people were waiting to go upstairs. Finch avoided the cars and relying on them to provide covers.  
“Sir, do you need help?” The voice behind him startled Harold. The machine prompted him to leave.  
Finch wheeled his chair strenuously, moving as fast as he can. The surrounding was quieter. It’s like the cars and people disappeared all at once. The eerie quietness was only broken by the person behind him asking if he needed help. He was scared.

A halting minibus in front of him opened its door suddenly. A few people got out fast and walked to him. He stopped abruptly and drew his loaded gun.   
The man behind him grabbed his chair.   
That’s when change happened. He felt the sound of wind and fighting behind him. Someone’s clothes brushed his face. The man grabbing his chair loosened his grip. Then the handle was controlled by a stronger hand. He yanked it and pressed down the wheelchair. The wheels were cocked upwards. Finch fell back. He screamed. 

The wheelchair did not fall. It skidded back a short distance at an upward angle. Gunshots rang. The man holding his handles were shooting. Finch knew who it was. He could look up to see his jaw. It’s Reese. 

The people were taken down. His wheelchair took a turn and he saw Reese. Reese knelt down and regarded Finch and he took the gun away gently from his hands.  
“You are not good at this.”

Finch hid his hands in without revealing anything. He gave him a smile.  
“That’s true, because I would not listen to my teacher when he taught me.”

Reese did not understand it. He just put away his gun and checked around. The earpiece was silent. Finch asked, “When?”  
“When you were shooting.”  
He said nothing to her on her disobeying. He watched John’s back in silence for a while. He said very quietly, “Thanks.”  
Maybe it’s too quiet, or something else. Neither the machine nor Reese answered to that.

When they were in the car, Finch looked back to the people on the ground.  
“Did you kill them?”  
Reese was moving the steering wheel out of the parking lot and he spared Finch a glance.  
“Or what?”  
“They were from Decima. They were your...”  
“So? No instructions say I can’t kill them. I was there for you. They were pointing their guns at me.”  
Maybe they were just aiming at me, Finch thought. It looked like John was still a secret to most. Those killers did not know him. Decima would not have anticipated John was with him. Well, he did not plan to, either.  
Finch saw from the rear mirror John’s constant confused glance and said in resignation.  
“OK, I should not be explaining loyalty to you on behalf of Decima. I don’t wish to, either.”

Reese did not say anything. He drove for a while and spoke.  
“...So did you buy me the chord?”  
“Oops, I am sorry, John. Please, turn left next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read this one carefully! Some details will come back later.


End file.
